Gamble Gone Wrong
by mk162rl8619
Summary: An alleged friend of Sherlock's father arrives at the brownstone.
1. Chapter 1

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Burning, Watson." Still in his pajamas, Sherlock sat at the dining room table, holding a lighted match to a letter, a mutilated envelope at his feet. The paper was beginning to smoke. "I have found this flimsy bit of compressed tree extremely conducive to that effect."

"You're going to set off a smoke alarm!" Joan rushed into the kitchen

"Well, since we're expecting it," Sherlock addressed his match, "it won't be very alarming, now will it?"

"You're unbelievable!"

"What, I'm simply-" Steam curled up from his hands as water dripped down the end of his nose. Joan had doused him with a pitcher of water. He frowned. "That was extreme."

"Considering you set letters that make you angry on fire, I don't think you get to make that kind of call." Sherlock cocked his head.

"You may have a point."

She sat down at the table. "Want to tell me who it was from?"

"Considering you are no longer a sober companion, but a detective, I think you should tell me. And it didn't just make me angry. It was infuriating." Water still trickling down his face Sherlock dropped the soggy letter and headed for the kitchen to get a bowl of cereal, tossing the match off into the corner. Watson sighed and turned to face him.

"Your father."

"Excellent deduction. Now tell me what he wants." Sherlock stuffed a spoonful of raisin bran into his mouth, wiping the water from his face with a kitchen towel. Joan grimaced.

"How could I know that?"

"Sometimes being a detective," Sherlock gesticulated with his spoon, "requires guesswork." Watson folded her hands.

"Okay, he wants you to meet with someone." Prompted by the bouncing of his spoon, Joan continued. "Someone inconvenient that you'd rather not meet. Who is also very boring."

"Spot on, Watson!" Sherlock dunked his spoon back into the cereal. "My father would like me to meet an old friend of his who is in town. He wants me to show him the city and grant him residence in my chambers, as I understand it. Probably a lie. The old man is likely a spy, sent by my father to uncover my dark secrets." Rolling her eyes as the brooding look that possessed Sherlock's features, Joan asked.

"Well, when does he arrive?"

"Within the hour." Sherlock picked up the box of cereal and, with a very insincere and somewhat menacing smile, left the room. Joan called after him.

"Aren't you going to clean up your letter?" Silence. She stared at the mess on the floor and shook her head.

Half an hour later, the doorbell to the brownstone rang. Joan was reading a book upstairs as Sherlock constructed a mansion of cards below, in the living room. The bell rang again. It rang a third time before Joan realized that Sherlock did not intend to let the visitor inside.

"Coming!" She hurried down the stairs, muttering curses at Sherlock under her breath. Upon opening the door, she met with a tall old man in a very expensive suit. Peering out from under a massive forehead were two sharp little eyes that managed to twinkle without emitting the slightest bit of warmth. The man also had a massive grey mustache that Joan, for some inexplicable reason, suspected was fake.

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

"Not a problem. Ms. Watson I presume?" The man smiled. The twinkle warmed for a moment. Joan nodded, also smiling, and stepped to the side.

"Please come in Mr., er?"

"Oh? You weren't told my name?" The man paused, surprised, the arch of his eyebrow and upturn of his mouth exuding waves of disbelief.

"Sherlock's been busy…and he, er, lost the letter." Joan smiled.

"Of course…" The newcomer said, glancing around the corner at the monstrosity in the living room that completely concealed its creator, a crease between his eyebrows forming. Recovering composure, he said, "I am Lord Elmore, an old friend of young 's father." He smiled again. Impressed, though not sure what level of respect "lords" were used to, Watson said,

"It's an honor-"

"Not an honor!" A voice came out from behind the wall of red and blue, with such force, the entire fortress crumbled. "Damn."

"Excuse me?" Lord Elmore stared at the disheveled figure of Sherlock. He still had not changed out of his pajamas, in fact, he looked worse than when had woken up.

"Not you, the, uh, cards. Captain Gregson has called me, Watson!" He showed her a text on his phone. "I must be off! You can take care of the old boy, eh!"

"Is he always so...distracted?" Joan and Lord Elmore were sitting at the same table where Sherlock set fire to his father's letter earlier that morning. Thankful she had cleaned up the evidence, Joan struggled to remain engaged in the conversation. Her face hurt from all smiling she'd endured over the last two hours.

"Sherlock's very absent-minded."

"I understand he is a prized consultant with the New York Police Department. I didn't know police departments had consulting detectives. Is it an American thing?"

"Uh, no, it's a Sherlock thing. Or, rather a Sherlock and me thing. Well-it wasn't a me thing until quite recently." Her usual composure had long since disintegrated. Lord Elmore nodded back with the eloquence of the English.

"I see. It must be very interesting."

"Oh it is, definitely."

"And exciting." Lord Elmore took a sip from the coffee Watson had given him.

"Certainly."

"I've had my share of excitement you know." Lord Elmore sat back and crossed his arms.

"Oh?" Look interested, Joan, she told herself. She had already heard about his racetrack several times.

"Yes, though of a different kind. I own a racetrack you see. Mr. Holmes—er, Sherlock's father—comes down quite a bit. All sorts of scandals and fights in racing, which, though they may be looked down upon, really add an extra layer of color to life, don't you think?"

"Well, yes, I've never really thought of it." Joan remembered what Sherlock had said about the man being a spy. Was this a test? "You see, I've never really been to horse races."

"Shame. The best part of a horse race is the unpredictability, don't you think? No matter who the favorite is, someone else might slip in at the last moment." Lord Elmore chuckled.

"That's very true." Joan felt obligated to chuckle back.

"Do you know when, er, Sherlock will be back? I hope you don't mind me addressing him so familiarly, you see, it's the way his father always does. I've heard so much about him that I feel as if I know him already." Rather than setting Joan at ease, Lord Elmore's comment left Joan with visions of an infuriated father raging over two million dollars and a heroine addiction.

"No, I don't know. He's not replying to my texts. He must be busy." For a moment, there was silence. Then Lord Elmore leaned over, his elbows on his knees and hands clasped before his face.

"Say, do you think-if it's not too much to ask that is, do you think that I could drop by and see what he does? If it's not okay, feel free to say so. It's just that I've never had an opportunity to investigate American police work before."

"Umm, you know what?" Joan checked her phone. Irritated with Sherlock for abandoning her, and curious about what was keeping him so long, she nodded. "It should be just fine. They can always turn us away at the door."

"Thank you very much Ms. Watson. The coffee was excellent too." He smiled with a strange little bow.

As soon as Joan opened the door and Lord Elmore stood upon the threshold, two shots fired. Joan yanked the Englishman back inside and slammed the door.

"What the devil was that?" No bullet had hit Lord Elmore, but the imprint of shock was clear on his face. Joan shook her head.

"I don't know. It sounded like a gunshot."

"A gunshot! Who would want to shoot us?" Joan was surprised by the fact that he assumed she had no enemies. For a moment, she was insulted—weren't detectives supposed to make enemies? Then she realized, Sherlock's father had probably already expounded the situation in full detail.

"Don't know. Maybe they thought you were Sherlock."

"Do people want to shoot him?" Maybe Lord Elmore was just stupid.

"Sometimes." She took out her phone.

"What are you doing?"

"Calling the police…" Joan frowned at him. He shook himself with a laugh.

"Of course, sorry, I'm…not quite, well, go ahead." He leaned up against the wall. Joan pressed the phone against her ear.

"Hi, Captain Gregson? Someone's just tried to shoot us over at the brownstone." Within minutes a police car appeared, containing Detective Bell. The shooter had disappeared. Joan and Lord Elmore rode with the detective back to headquarters.

"Now, Lord Elmore, please tell me, why are you really here?" Sherlock stuck his hands in his pocket and bobbed his head out over his over-buttoned flannel. Apparently, he had a change of clothes stored somewhere in police headquarters. They were sitting in Captain Gregson's office. Watson had discovered that it was not a case, but pitcher of orange juice and a plate of cookies that had kept Sherlock busy for the last couple of hours. Joan and Lord Elmore sat, staring at the plate, which had, according to Captain Gregson and Detective Bell, been emptied and refilled several times by their favorite detective. In the room, standing, were the captain and Sherlock. Detective Bell was out, looking for the bullets that had assailed the lord and Watson.

"What are you talking about?"

"Why are you present in this country?" Lord Elmore stared.

"I don't understand why this is relevant. Besides, I already told you, I wanted to see America."

"Already heard that lie, come up with a better one." Lord Elmore frowned.

"You have a lot of nerve, sir. I was shot at upon exiting your apartment."

"Got yourself shot at in my house with my partner. You sir, are the one with nerve!" Sherlock continued bobbing like a boxer. Lord Elmore looked up at Joan, who glared at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, you're being ridiculous."

"Am I?" He raised his eyebrows.

"This is insulting, and I will report your behavior to your father."

"Being scolded via e-mail and telephone isn't all that traumatizing I assure you. I have experienced it many times, you may be certain." Sherlock bobbed his head again.

"If you continue to insult me sir-"

"I don't know what the game is yet. But I will unravel it. Report anything you like to my father. In the meantime, don't eat all the cookies." Sherlock took a cookie, and strode out of the room, three sets of perplexed eyes fixed on his back.


	2. Chapter 2

"Ballistics say that the bullet came from a hand gun, that was predictable. What's a bit more interesting is that they were bullets that can't be bought or manufactured anywhere in the United States or Europe. Some kind of funky chemical in them." Detective Bell handed Joan a file. While scanning it, she said,

"It says that they are only made in certain parts of Japan."

"That's correct."

"But why would anyone use such distinctive bullets? I mean, it must narrow the field immensely." Joan looked up at Bell. He shrugged

"Less then you'd think. They show up on the black market, and a lot of people who have unregistered guns use them. The owner himself might not even know, especially if he bought the gun in Japan. But you're right, it does narrow the field." Joan rested her hand on the table. Sherlock still had not returned and Lord Elmore was in Captain Gregson's office. She was in Detective Bell's office looking over the case. Nothing was making sense. What did Japanese bullets have to do with anything?

"Do you think Sherlock could be right? About Lord Elmore?" Bell shrugged.

"We don't have any better lead at the moment, but I doubt it. I guess anything's possible. Doesn't seem likely to me. But, as you know, Sherlock has predicted unlikelier things which have come true."

Joan nodded. Working with Sherlock had proved to her that reality exceeded the imagination.

"Maybe we should call Sherlock's father. I mean, he should know whether or not Lord Elmore…" She waved her hand, not knowing how to finish her sentence.

"Tried that, it's impossible. The man must have a Buckingham palace full of secretaries that reconnect calls all day long. I can see why Sherlock avoids contact." Bell took the file back and looked down at it.

"Well we can call back later. What possible connection could there be-"

The door opened. Joan and Bell glanced up. It was Sherlock. He stood in the doorway for a moment, clasping his hands before him.

"I wished to inquire if any information had come in concerning the bullets?" He rocked back and forth on his feet.

"Yeah, right here. You got anything from your…whatever you were doing?" Bell walked across the room to hand Sherlock the report. Sherlock ignored his question, surveyed the papers before him and threw it to the side.

"Hey!"

"I apologize. Being asinine runs in my family." He stretched his neck.

"That's not okay-"

"Did not I say that I apologize?" Sherlock licked his teeth. He stared intently at the corner. Bell stared at him, and then Joan. Joan stood up.

"Sherlock…"

"What!" He turned to her. She raised her voice to compete with his.

"What makes you so sure this is your dad? I mean, with all the criminals you've helped to convict, there's a whole trail of people who might want to kill you. I think you're just fixating on your father because of this morning."

"Despite your perfectly valid bit of psychoanalysis, you are hopelessly blind to what actually has an impact on our present set of circumstances." Sherlock paused. "Don't you see?" Sherlock walked over and bent down. He picked up the papers, not caring if he crumpled them, and shoved them towards Joan. "This is an intentional set-up." He was about to throw the papers again, when Detective Bell snatched them away. The detective glared at Sherlock, but he took no notice. "The shooter misses Lord Elmore and yourself by a mile, first indicator. The two shots were also, as you may observe in the photograph, fired in approximately the same direction, a good five feet above and four feet to the left of your heads." Sherlock gestured towards the file. "The first miss didn't disturb our friend at all. Why not fire another shot, and why not miss in the exact same direction? No one intent on killing a person would shoot in such a manner. They may miss twice, but they will certainly miss in opposing directions." Sherlock pointed in opposing directions. Joan looked up at Bell. The picture matched Sherlock's description. Sherlock continued, now raising a finger. "Second indicator, he doesn't even attempt, to complete, or rather, begin, his job. It's difficult to plan and execute a murder, and simple enough to break into the brownstone. Where's the follow-up, the killer's instinct?"

"Well maybe he just lost his nerve, what's so unusual-"

"Not done yet, Watson." Sherlock waved his hand and began to pace, head down and gesticulations, wild, as he acted out each action he related. "Thirdly, he uses bullets that are only manufactured in certain areas of Japan! No killer with even half a brain would do that any more than a jewel thief would stamp an inked fingerprint on a display case. Fourthly, the timing." Sherlock paused, looking at Bell and then Joan. "It is impeccable. The very day Lord Elmore arrives, with the most vapid excuse I have ever heard—wanting to see America and content with staying in the brownstone of his friend's drug addict son, that's what I am to those people, the addict!—and is fired upon the very moment he leaves the house! Did I mention that there was also a Japanese man on the plane with Lord Elmore? Coming from England? The only thing I don't understand is Lord Elmore's willing participation!"

"What? Where is he?" Bell started for the door.

"The man is perfectly innocent I'm sure-that is, innocent of trying to actually take the life of Ms. Watson and Mr. Elmore, as I have stated previously." Sherlock's voice had lost all pretense of calm. "On the other hand, I am sure he is quite guilty of being on the payroll of my father. A little test, a little puzzle, set up to see of I could solve it. It's actually extremely insulting, the simplicity of it! I'm sure that a tidy little motive will surface now, someone will owe someone money, someone will-"

"But where is the shooter? How did you know he was on the plane?" Detective Bell did not seem comforted by Sherlock's testimony.

"I borrowed one of your officers and checked the register of British Airways. Kazuo Katanawa. He is allegedly a British citizen coming to the United States in the middle of March on _holiday. _ I knew my father thought I was a useless vagrant. I thought he was too proud to consider me an idiot! The little trail of breadcrumbs, he has so subtly strewn is in fact a chain of entire baguettes!"

"Regardless of this Katanawa's motive, there are several charges we need to press for firing weapons in the middle of Brooklyn, and he still may be charged with attempted murder. Where is he staying?"

"The Claremore, on Fifth Avenue."

"Alright. I'm going to go with a couple cops right now and arrest him. And if you're right, try to reach your father, you should tell him that he can expect a big fat fine from the NYPD in his mailbox. We might not be able to reach him since he's outside our borders, but you can be our middle man." Detective Bell left the room.

Sherlock rocked back and forth on his feet a bit more. Joan sighed. She found it difficult to argue with Sherlock when all the cards were in his favor. His explanation, of the entire thing being a set-up, was one that matched the facts. After a moment, she said,

"You can be angry, but, I mean try look at this positively."

"Where is the positive in this situation, might I inquire?" Joan walked over and sat beside him.

"If this really is your father, this is the first time he has shown an interest in what you do. Maybe he's just afraid to reach out to you in that way. Maybe he's trying to build a relationship."

"By jeopardizing my work?" Sherlock turned to stare at her. "This," he waved his hands around, "disaster, is in fact, the fruit of some misplaced love? I'd rather he hated me. Captain Gregson may not want me to stay on as a consultant. Not with my rabid father running loose. Besides, its not love. Most likely he's bored. Even if he imagines it to be love, it is nothing but boredom."

"Just try to relax." Joan said. She was thinking of the Captain. Sherlock might be right.

"I can't believe that Mr. Holmes would do something like this. Without warning me especially! It's unthinkable." Lord Elmore rubbed his jaw. His mustache had lost so much of it's vigor it was almost believable.

"I believe you are suffering from dementia Mr. Elmore, it isn't that uncommon with people of your demographic age bracket. Either that or you have met, not my father, but a life-size android of the man, which I'm sure he has plenty of." Lord Elmore frowned up at Sherlock, though it was difficult to tell if he was offended or confused. "So he has something to entertain him when his full body mirrors are unavailable. Besides, I consider you an accomplice in this crime."

"That's preposterous, both of those things are utterly preposterous-"

"There's always the possibility that this was an attempt on Holmes's life—Sherlock's,-Mr.-er Lord Elmore." Captain Gregson leaned against his desk, arms folded. "In fact, we would be treating it as such if not for Sherlock's insistence on blaming his father. Though I should warn you, if this investigation goes the way Sherlock expects, you'll be seeing a lot more of us then you planned." The storm on Gregson's face nurtured the fear that Sherlock had planted in Watson's mind. Though Gregson might not abandon Sherlock, they were in for a frosty atmosphere in the NYPD for a couple weeks. "And Holmes, you better pray that for the first time in your life, that you are dead wrong."

"Of course he's dead wrong!"

"If the criminals I convicted were such pathetic shots, they'd never have been convicted of anything but vandalism." There was a pause as Sherlock frowned down at the empty plate of cookies. Lord Elmore shook his head.

"You know something? I don't think this is Mr. Holmes. This isn't like him at all. He's a very conscientious man. You, young lad, should have more respect for him." After shaking a finger in Sherlock's general direction, Lord Elmore stood up, arms crossed, tapping his left fingers on his right forearm. Sherlock muttered something beneath his breath. He paced the room for a couple seconds, and then threw his arms to the side. "Let me call him, please." Sherlock continued to mutter.

"We've tried already." The captain steamed. Joan could see that he was doing his best to keep his temper, perhaps under the influence of the Englishman's title, but his patience was disintegrating. "His work number, the number Bell came up with, was nothing but a trail of secretaries and Sherlock's private number is ringing out. All we can do is wait, so please, don't," the captain paused revising the end of his sentence, "Don't worry." Lord Elmore nodded. He sat down. A moment later he jumped to his feet.

"What did you say the name of that fellow is? The one who Mr. Holmes allegedly hired?"

"Kazuo Katanawa."

"Where does he work?"

"Evergreen International."

"Evergreen International? Why, they have an office not three miles away from my racetrack!" Lord Elmore jumped to his feet. The captain frowned.

"Your racetrack is on the outskirts of Manchester?"

"It is, most certainly! Many of the businessmen come by on the weekend. Some of them owe me quite a bit of money."

"Does Katanawa?" Joan sat up straighter in her chair. She glanced at Sherlock, and was surprised to see a glower on his face in place of the excitement she expected. Why was he frowning like that? Hadn't he predicted this?

"You know something? He very well might!" The phone rang. Silence dampened the growing excitement in the room as Gregson pressed a button to put the call on speaker. The voice of Detective Bell filled the room.

"Katanawa has an alibi."


	3. Chapter 3

The words issuing from the speakerphone on Captain Gregson's desk summoned a cloud of shock. For a moment, all were in a trance as the machine sat on the desk, in impenetrable silence. Everyone had accepted Sherlock's words as truth, and, with Lord Elmore's new information, had regarded Bell's statement as nothing but a confirmation. Now, everything went to hell.

"He has a what?"

"But then who tried to shoot me? Us, I mean, of course."

"Everybody shut up!" Gregson glared at Joan and Lord Elmore. "Now, detective. Repeat what you just said. Everybody stay quiet!"

"Katanawa has an alibi. At 4:20 pm, when the shots went off, he was on a tour bus with at least twelve other active participants. I checked it out. It's a fact. He is not our man." Sherlock looked stunned.

"Are you sure?" The captain asked.

"Positive. He was on the other side of town."

"But it was so perfect, it made so much sense! He might have found a way off the bus. Someone is going to double check this right? It says right here in my records that he owed me almost two million pounds! Think of how many dollars that is!" Lord Elmore held up a little leather-bound notebook. No one paid him any attention.

"Drive back over here. You started a separate investigation in front of Holmes's place?"

"I did. Several people heard the shot, but no one saw exactly where it came from. The bullets' angle suggested the person was in a car when he or she fired. I don't know how helpful that is, considering that we have not yet found a single person who actually saw it."

"Well, we know he wasn't in a cab then, right?" Joan said. Lord Elmore was still attempting to shove his notebook in someone's face.

"That man owes me a lot of money! And I threatened him not two weeks ago that I would call the police if he didn't start paying me back!" He pushed the notebook towards the captain, who scowled.

"Why didn't you recognize the photograph we showed you, then?" Lord Elmore shrugged.

"I-I-I've never seen him. I just looked at the records my secretary gave me and telephoned him." Lord Elmore turned around to look at Joan and Sherlock. His behavior was perplexing. "The man must be guilty—arrest him!"

"But he has an alibi!" Possessed with conviction to rival a Spartan general, Lord Elmore raised a hand, and slammed the table.

"An attempt has been made on my life and I demand that his so-called alibi be challenged! It is outrageous that-"

"Get him out of here!" Captain Gregson beckoned to security with his head. They grabbed Lord Elmore by his elbows and escorted him from the room. "Jesus."

From over the intercom, Detective Bell, not having a full grasp of the situation said, "Sir, while we could investigate further, I really don't think-"

"Nevermind, Bell, we've got another nutty Englishman on our hands." Gregson glared at Sherlock, as if he was responsible for Lord Elmore's behavior. "We'll get a list of everyone Sherlock's ever put away in this city and start from there. You go back to the brownstone and continue investigation."

"Yes sir."

"Alright." Captain Gregson hung up. He pointed a finger at Sherlock. "You are a lucky man, my friend. This investigation has been delayed long enough. Now I want you to start thinking of who you know who could-"

"Watson will handle it. I'm busy."

"What now?" Gregson looked at Sherlock in disbelief. Sherlock looked down at his hands, twiddling his thumbs.

"I think I will do as Lord Elmore says. That is, investigate our friend Katanawa." Sherlock smiled. Gregson gaped. After a moment he waved Sherlock away.

"I've had enough of you today. Do what you like."

Katanawa peered down at Sherlock, as if surveying an amoeba, with equal parts interest and disgust.

"What is it you want, Mr…?" He pretended to have forgotten Sherlock's name.

"Holmes."

"Yes, of course, Mr. Holmes. What is it?" Katanawa sat in a large armchair, and ran a long finger along the golden stitching that spider webbed across the maroon base. A fluffy cat would have completed the picture, but Sherlock suspected Katanawa was allergic.

"I understand you owe quite a bit of money to a certain Lord Elmore."

"I told you people already! I was on a tour bus at the time of the murder!"

"I know, I know, and I trust that Detective Bell is not a complete idiot and has somehow procured reasonable proof." Sherlock leaned forward. "What I want to know is, how does a man two million pounds in debt go on holiday?" Katanawa leaned back and tilted his hand, the shadow of a smirk lingering on his lips.

"It is not uncommon for people like me to be in what you would call "serious debt" sometimes. I have a brother who's a big-time trader—he can make it back for me within two weeks. My vacation has been in the works for months. I am not going to skip it because I owe a cheat like Lord Elmore some spare change." Katanawa frowned as he brushed a dust speck off the chair.

"A cheat! Explain, if you please." Sherlock widened his eyes and rubbed his hands together. The theatricality of the conversation appealed to Katanawa, it seemed.

"You Englishmen are all the same, you won't take my word above one of your own."

"I assure, I most definitely will."

"Well then, I shall tell you. Maybe Scotland Yard will listen to you more than they did to me." Katanawa shrugged.

"I know people at Scotland Yard."

"Good." Katanawa nestled into the armchair and interlocked his fingers before his nose, which had been surgically altered several times. "I bet on a horse at his track."

"Is this the two million?"

"A good portion of it yes. I had reason to believe this horse would win." Katanawa tilted his head. "However, at the start of the race, it was announced that this horse had broken its leg."

"There's nothing unusual in that. Horses are constantly withdrawing due to injury." Sherlock eyed Katanawa as a hunter eyes its prey. Katanawa fell into the trap.

"No! Not like this. Despite the reports of race officials, the horse's leg had clearly been smashed intentionally!" Katanawa's eyes sparked.

"And you are, of course, the only one who noticed this." Katanawa made a sound of disgust and turned his head.

"I'm the only one who admitted I noticed it. The jockey was paid off, I'm sure. Other people were upset, but took it like you 'Oh it must have been an accident, oh, well, better luck next time!'" Katanawa turned his head back so that he was facing Sherlock. "But Lord Elmore bet on that race, and he didn't bet on that horse. He made millions. It was revolting!" Katanawa sighed.

"Did our good friend Lord Elmore know that you had these suspicions?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Yes he did. When he called me about the money I told him, and I told him I wouldn't pay because of the cheat. He said, if I didn't pay within two weeks, he would send letters to the office every day, and I said fine, because in I would be in New York by then, on vacation." Katanawa shrugged. Sherlock tensed in his seat.

"One moment. You told him that you would, in fact, be on vacation in New York by then?"

"Yes. Why shouldn't I?" Sherlock bounced to his feet and extended a hand to Katanawa, who had narrowed his eyes in suspicion as he reached out automatically to shake it. "What is it?"

"Thank you Mr. Katanawa, you have been exceedingly helpful! If I am correct, you need not worry about bothering your trader brother, and I shall do everything in my power to initiate a new investigation with the Scotland Yard!" Leaving Katanawa sitting in the armchair, his cool varnish permeated by a look of bewilderment, Sherlock bounced into the hall. He took out his phone and called Watson.

"It is unraveled."

When they met in Captain Gregson's office, half an hour later, no one had replenished the cookie supply and everyone but Sherlock was looking rather discouraged. Not one shred of evidence had surfaced. Joan had her head in her hands and the captain was leaning back in the chair. Detective Bell had his hands folded on his the table, while wearing a mask of stress and weariness. Sherlock was standing up, smiling to himself. Joan hoped that this time he hadn't let his emotions distort his view of the case. She had forgotten that Sherlock's argument had been so convincing she herself had fallen under its spell. Lord Elmore had his arms crossed. He had attended to his mustache, though in the absence of hair product, it was still a bit droopy.

"Excellent! I trust that I have everyone's attention? Yes? Permit me to share with you my discoveries of the past few hours." Sherlock began to pace back and forth.

"We agreed previously that this crime was a set-up if I am not mistaken. There was-"

"Hang on a sec. That was before-" Detective Bell leaned back in his chair.

"One moment, Detetive. It will all become clear in a moment. I agree now with Ms. Watson that I was blinded by my emotions concerning my father, but now I believe I've solved it. My father did not set up the shooting. Lord Elmore set it up."

"This is ridiculous! I've had quite enough of all this today! It's shameful!" Lord Elmore jumped to his feet.

"Permit me to continue, felon." Sherlock said.

"But it's an insult to my honor and integrity-"

"I know about your racetrack."

"Of course you know about it I told you-"

"You did not, however, inform me of your habit of sabotaging races." Sherlock smiled.

"You-you-"

"Mr. Elmore would you please sit down and let the man speak? If he's wrong, you can do whatever you like, but please, let's hear the explanation." Captain Gregson crossed his arms as he leaned against his desk. "Spit it out, Holmes."

"Let me explain simply. Our Lord Elmore took a gamble, not understanding the risks, and lost. Katanawa bets on horse, a favorite. Lord Elmore bets on horse, not a favorite, so huge winnings should that horse pull off a miracle. Lord Elmore then has some racetrack officials break the horse's leg. Lord Elmore wins, but Katanawa suspects. Lord Elmore asks for the money Katanawa borrowed from the racetrack to place the bet, and Katanawa refuses to pay. Lord Elmore threatens Katanawa with bombardment, and Katanawa informs him he will be spending time in America. New York, to be specific.

"So what does Lord Elmore do? He develops a sudden interest in New York where his close friend's junkie son works as a consulting detective. He takes one of his hired hands along for the ride, perhaps even the one who broke the racehorse's leg. With a very high opinion of himself, and a very low opinion of a police force that allows such miscreants in on its darkest secrets, our friend leaves, as I said before a trail of baguettes. Same plane, the gun, everything points in flashing neon lights towards Katanawa." Sherlock paused. He wasn't smiling anymore, he was staring straight at Lord Elmore. The old man was glowing red and stiff.

"Where did our friend go wrong then?" He began to walk around Lord Elmore, who had made the unfortunate mistake of sitting in the only free-standing chair in the room. The lord stared straight ahead, all the blood in his body ready to burst from his head.

"First mistake: didn't secure Katanawa. Just presumed that anyone coming of a ten hour flight wouldn't want to do anything or come anywhere. Katanawa, a bit of a strange fellow, decides to hop on a tour bus. When planning to frame someone, all the variables must be secure, remember that the next time you try one of these.

"Second, the mustache."

"The mustache?" Even Lord Elmore joined in the chorus.

"Yes, my friends, the mustache." Sherlock stopped circling Lord Elmore for a moment to point at it. "Not bad for not having seen hair product for what, seven hours? But you see, how is it that you sat on a ten hour flight and came off with it looking fresh? How is it possible?" Sherlock continued walking.

"I'll tell you what you did—you stopped off somewhere, with your confederate, saw your mustache and couldn't bear to walk out with it in such a deplorable state. And then there were the bullets, but I think I have said enough about those already." Sherlock stopped before Lord Elmore again. This time, the lord looked up. Sherlock leaned over.

"But you know what your error really was? Do you?" The smile that was on his face had long evaporated and now boiling hatred came pouring forth, saturating every word that issued from his mouth.

"You underestimated Sherlock Holmes." Lord Elmore's head fell upon his chest. For a few moments no one moved.

"Well, that's that then." Captain Gregson stood up. "Call security. We'll also start a search for his assistant." Turning to Lord Elmore he said, "Want to tell us where to start looking?" The old man was silent. The Captain shrugged. "It won't be hard now that we know he worked with you on the racetrack. It's just dollars to add to the fine, or years on the sentence."

As police officers led Lord Elmore away, Joan walked over to Sherlock. His anger had not yet dissipated. After a moment of silence, Sherlock said,

"You see now, I was right."

"So it would seem. I expected him to put up more of a fight though." Joan looked at him. His eyebrows were clenched tightly over his gloomy eyes.

"No, not about that. About my father."

"What?" Joan asked, but she already knew the answer. Sherlock looked at her and smiled. It might have been the light, but his eyes looked slightly wet.

"He doesn't care about the man behind the addict. He doesn't know he exists." Hands in his pockets, he began to walk down the hall.

THE END


End file.
